


in empty streets

by Makioka



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post canon, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew makes a new acquaintance with whom he shares more in common than he imagines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in empty streets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



"There's one here," Martin shouted and Andrew came closer, dragged away the rubble from the prone form, and with the skill that had become second nature over the last long few months, checked the airways of the unconscious body, and automatically brushed away the dust from his face, checked his vital signs, and then with the brutal ease of practice, checked his neck.

 

"Stretcher," he said briefly, and Martin seized the corners and brought it down, looking with concern, first at the cold whiteness of the face they'd pulled out, and then at the sky as though he feared more bombs. Andrew concentrated on making sure the body was mostly free, and then together, on the count of three, they lifted the body up and settled it on the stretcher, before they lifted it into the ambulance and Andrew swung round to the front to take them back to the hospital, their solitary cargo silent and motionless. There was more than one man still digging in the rubble, but Andrew had learnt through trial and error which would yield more whole bodies and which wouldn’t, and as of that moment, the man they’d found couldn’t wait.

 

As much as he thought at all, he thought of the road, everything else driven from him in the moment, a stripped down, pared necessity of survival. At the other end, he lifted the man out, and then cursing himself for a fool, slid a hand into his pocket and scanned the identification he carried. "Stanton," he said briefly to Martin. "Let's take him in."

 

"He's one lucky one," Martin said, "must've been across the street from the hit at the time." They carefully didn't mention the others, or what had been left of them, how the luck had been stretched all too thin between them it seemed. Whoever this man was, he'd been in the right place at the right time, all things considered. It was the end of the shift though, and no more urgent reports coming in so Andrew washed his hands, and headed to the break-room, a no-man's-land of tea and blissful peaceful seconds between crises. He tried not to think of the people they brought in too much, had grown too used to placing the thought of God between him and them, commending each of them to his power, but obscuring their faces.

 

The hospital was pandemonium at present, the fruits of the air-raids having blossomed once again, and Andrew was beginning to feel the weariness of the day when he approached the sister to let her know that the young man brought in had been a soldier on forty eight hour leave. She pointed at the phone, already turning away. “You’ll have to let the authorities know,” she said, “we’re under staffed as it is,” and left him alone with the telephone and the operator waiting. Suddenly, unutterably weary, he told her the direction and listened to nothingness as he waited, the tiredness of the day sinking into his bones. Numbly, he repeated the little information he had, and let the brisk questions wash over him, and then replaced the receiver, and braced his hands on the desk for a moment.

 

When he looked up, a rather impatient look greeted him, from a man a little below medium height. “Really now,” he said, a little high pitched, a little affected, “I was told this wouldn’t take long.” Then as though he hadn’t looked at Andrew before now, he surveyed him for a brief second, his next sally, quieter and less annoyed. “I’m looking for the Sister,” he said.

 

Andrew as neither a nurse or an orderly here, still found the familiar words come automatically to him. “I’m afraid you should be in bed if you’re a patient. Sister will be round as soon as she can.”

 

A twist of amusement twitched at the man’s lip. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m not a patient, or at least I hope not for much longer. There’s nothing much wrong with me that a gin or three won’t fix.” There was something about the way he looked at Andrew, an assessing quality to his gaze that dimly itched at some other memory, buried back in the awfulness of the last few months. He hadn’t met this man before, he was sure of it but there was something vaguely familiar about him despite that. It took him a moment to pinpoint it. This man looked at him the way Laurie had sometimes looked at him. He felt the skin of his neck flush at the thought - he’d spent long enough crushing back those thoughts, compressing them back to Bridstow where they belonged. He’d been wrong in what he imagined, he was sure of it now, else Laurie would have come. He knew that as much as he knew anything. If Laurie had been free and wanted to, he would have come.

 

Here now, was someone else who looked at him with something of the same look. Andrew tried not to meet his gaze, the memory of certain uncomfortable conversations with Dave still with him. Perhaps if it had been Laurie, but it wasn’t. “I’m afraid I can’t help,” he said with quick decision. “But let me take you to somebody who can.”

 

The other man sagged against the desk for a moment, a deep weariness in his body. “I’ve been marked A1 fit,” he said with a certain private amused look, “by people who ought probably not to be practicing medicine. I’m not a patient here though. I just need to see the doctor-in-charge or failing that, the Sister, so I can be discharged.”

 

Andrew looked at him and made up his mind. “Sit here,” he said gently, and tugged out the hard chair from behind the desk. As he rounded the desk, he saw the man’s leg, sticking a little awkwardly out, and the sudden renewed resemblance to Laurie - who he looked nothing like otherwise in tone and  build was redoubled. As luck would have it, the Sister was bustling back to her post. She took hold of the situation smoothly, and Andrew left them both there with a nod of goodbye, tiredness giving a dreamlike patina to the situation. He was glumly contemplating the walk through the dark to the digs he shared, not looking forward to it, when the man he’d seen in the hospital stumped up behind him, leaning now on a stick.

 

“You again,” he said with a smile, charming and quick, that changed his whole face to one of quite startling handsomeness. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what a benighted soul does for a taxi here?” There was a quickness to his words that wasn’t exactly natural as though he was forgetting to play some part and then picking up again badly, a half-hesitancy to his words that struck the ear oddly.

 

Andrew couldn’t help it, he laughed, at the hopeful bizarreness of the question. “I’m afraid you’re a little out of luck,” he said drily and peered out into the darkness. “About the only luck you have is that they’ve sounded the all clear hours ago. Where are you going?”

 

“Not a clue,” was the reply. “They gave me a forty eight hour leave pass you know, to see friends and family,” and the laugh that followed was high and tinged with an edge as though he’d been pushed too far. “Only of course, my family live in Scotland, and who even knows if my friends live at all the way this war’s been going.” As though speaking to himself, he said more quietly, “I suppose Bridstow. It seems appropriate.”

 

“Oh that’s where it’s from,” Andrew broke in on the other man’s half-spoken musings. “You did seem so awfully familiar. We must have bumped into each other there.” He was a little friendlier than he meant to be, but the name Bridstow was a call of recognition, never far from his thoughts, whenever he had a moment to spare. “Not that I was allowed into town much of course. I’m Andrew Raynes,” and he extended a hand.

 

The other man shook it, once, squarely, then lingered just half a moment too long. “You can call me Bim,” he said, “people mostly do.”

 

“You can’t have been christened that,” Andrew said, amused.

 

“True, but imagine some of the awful things that I could have been christened with, and give me the benefit of the doubt. Algernon for one. Faith-Hope-Mercy for another. Can you blame a man for fleeing to the short and sweet? Now I wonder where we could have met,” and again that assessing, fleeting look. “I don’t suppose you know a man called Sandy do you? Little, gingery sort, always seemed to know how to get his hands on some drinks, seemed to know everyone worth knowing.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Andrew said with an amused look, “I suppose I can’t have been much worth knowing.”

 

“Figure of speech dear,” Bim said, and before Andrew could do anything more than glance at him, he barreled onwards. “Alec perhaps? I’m naming the medical people I knew you see, seeing as how that’s clearly your field.”

 

“Not quite medicine,” Andrew replied, “I don’t suppose we’d know anyone in common. I worked as an orderly at a little place outside of the town, not the City Hospital or anything.”

 

Bim nodded and then said slowly. “I suppose that means you might’ve known Laurie Odell? Perhaps you met him. I believe he was a patient at a place like that, though to tell you the truth I only met him once and I was quite, quite gone.” He spoke as though something had been confirmed, some odd abstract knowledge that pleased him.

 

“What an odd coincidence,” Andrew said, and gazed into the blackness of the night. He realised at that moment that they had walked quite far, an aimless patter, and that beside him Bim was pale with exertion. “Look,” he said, with sudden decision. “You’ve no hope at all of catching a train tonight, whether to Scotland or Bridstow, and with the city the way it is, and how late or rather how early it is now, you’re not going to find digs. Come back to mine and I’ll square it with Dave in the morning. I can’t promise the Ritz, but I can promise a bed and a cup of tea.”

 

Bim hesitated. “That’s very kind of you,” he said quietly, “but perhaps not a very good idea.” Some of the false gaiety that had tagged behind him since they first met fell. “I’m afraid I’m a kicker now.”

 

Andrew laughed. “You can’t possibly be worse than Tom. The neighbours bang on the wall when he gets started on his nightmares. There’s nothing to it. Rest, and in the morning you can make the most of your leave.”

 

“It’s very kind and rather biblical of you, sheltering strangers under your wing and all that,” Bim said, and when Andrew looked clearly he could see the lines of strain in his face. “But what I rather want right now, in lieu of anything more stimulating, is a drink.” They were not too far from The Beeches, and Andrew racked his brains. “We have brandy,” he said rather hesitantly, dimly remembering a bottle Dave had produced on the grounds of it being good for shock. “If we were nearer Soho I suppose there would be places but I’m afraid I don’t know them except by repute.”

 

“I wouldn’t imagine you did,” Bim said. Then, wearily, as though even the lure of oblivion couldn't counteract the ache of his legs, "if it's not too much of a terrible trouble, I'll take you up on that bed. Or a couch even."

 

"Of course," Andrew said and thought about lending a hand.

 

Bim stumped along without it though, the skin on his face leeching colour, until by the time Andrew saw the faded pink curtains, he was breathing in hard and fast. Andrew nudged the door open and led him through to the tiny living room that they shared, and with the instinct engendered by working in a hospital on however disorganised a basis, gave him a hand down into the chair and set the stick within easy reach. Bim closed his eyes and leant back, while Andrew as quietly as he could, raided the cupboards in the kitchen until he'd unearthed a rather motley collection of goods. There was indeed a half bottle of brandy, carefully sealed, and a few other little odds and ends. There was no way to make tea without rousing everyone else in the house - the walls too thin to allow any discreetness, so he set a glass down carefully on the tray, and, with slight hesitation included one for himself.

 

"I didn't imagine you drank," Bim said vaguely as he sipped at the glass of brandy.

 

"I don't," Andrew replied. "The Friends are of divided opinion on it. Dave thinks in time of need it's acceptable."

 

"I imagine times of need could become quite loosely defined," Bim said, "but perhaps that's my wicked mind at work." Little enough though it was, the brandy seemed to be doing its job, a little more colour coming back to his face as he drank it. "It's been a long time since I had brandy," he said, "a little wine in France that was our lot."

 

"You were in France?" Andrew said, surprised.

 

"Yes," was the brief reply, "but I suppose I shouldn't talk about that yet." Although he was bursting with curiosity, Andrew left it alone, and was rewarded with Bim shrugging. "I shouldn't talk about it," he said, "but what a waste it was. How stupid it all seems." He seemed to sink inside himself for long moments, as though contemplating something. Dave had once said that Andrew provoked talking by simply not speaking, and Laurie had said much the same thing at least once, as though in the silence he provided, people contributed the words to fill it up. He did that now, sipped at the unpleasant harshness of the brandy, just a drop at a time until Bim spoke again.

 

 "I was shot down," he said finally. "No harm saying that, nothing that the world doesn't know. Only we were late back you see because we'd engaged. So I flew a very little inland because I knew what the choices were- shot down over water or parachuting over land. It was a struggle I suppose, nobody likes the thought of capture. In the end human spirit won out. So I've spent the last two months trekking over France, and if I never see another hill again it'll be too soon." He took a fortifying sip of his brandy. "I suppose this sounds ridiculous."

 

"No," Andrew said quietly. He was remembering for a long moment being bareheaded in the rain, the smoking ozone scent of the air heavy in his nostrils as Laurie railed at him, and then again, in a meagre Anderson shelter while off-shift, huddled down as the stick of bombs dropped, closer and closer, and all he could think was _I don't want to die_. "It doesn't sound stupid at all."

 

"They docked our lodgings from our back pay when we got back, you know," Bim said suddenly. "Isn't that frightful. I'm awfully obliged for your brandy by the way, after the army deducts its swinging rent for a hard bunkbed and a meal that was mostly potato, I doubt I should be able to buy it. Cost more than the Ritz and came with a free lecture about dawdling our way homewards."

 

"Are you happy to have survived it?" The words weren't out before Andrew wished he could bite them back, his unfortunate capacity for blunt speech betraying him again. He realised with mild surprise that the brandy must be loosening his tongue. He put the glass down as he thought it.

 

"Dear child," Bim said, and from the flush on his face, Andrew realised that it didn't matter how much Bim had been used to drink - Andrew suspected a lot - that months without any must work an effect. Bim passed a hand over his eyes. "I'm talking too much," he said. "Only it feels good to talk. I only knew a little French you see, the benefits of a progressive, experimental school, and French is mostly what they speak over there oddly enough. That or German if they were a Gestapo pig." From the way he leaned, and then righted himself, Andrew realised he'd been about to spit in some familiar learned ritual, and then remembering where he was restrained himself.

 

There was a slight dreamlike translucence to the scene, Andrew couldn't help thinking an eerie quality to the two of them crouched on mismatched chairs around a one bar fire that had been rationed enough, that they could risk it for tonight. 

 

"So how did you know Laurie?" he asked, the curiosity burning through him now.

  
"We only met briefly," Bim said, more reticent now, picking his way carefully through the words. "He was a friend of a friend - Ralph Lanyon if you know him."

  
The words sat there between them, uncomfortable and alien, and Andrew found himself looking away as though it would somehow disguise his face. It was all the confirmation that he'd needed of the suspicion that had begun with the look at the hospital, and the knowledge they had Laurie in common. "Oh" he said, and wondered at how natural his voice sounded, as though this common bond between them meant really nothing at all. "I met him once." He refrained from mentioning that it had ended in the first time he'd ever struck someone - the shame swallowed him up again at the thought, and inconsequentially, he thought of Laurie's address, unused, still in Dave's card file.

  
"He's a good man," Bim said, and something in the set of Andrew's face must have impinged on his thoughts, because he frowned. "Not friends?"

 

"No," Andrew said dully, and tried not to think of that dreadful day, the hit of his hand against Ralph's face, and the way that he'd laughed, as though it was some joke that Andrew would never have a hope of getting. "Stood there with his hands in his pockets, and he laughed, so I hit him," and he only realised that he'd said it out loud when Bim shuffled closer, a terrible kindness on his jaded face, a compassion that didn't fit the slightly mocking way he'd bared himself with a jaunty gesture and a flourish, as though what he said and thought were of no consequence, of no consequence at all.

 

"That doesn't sound like Lanyon," Bim said quietly. "Not the man I knew."

 

Andrew shrugged. "He threw it in my face. What I was, you know, called me jealous. I could have ignored that I suppose, only he stripped me open and showed me what I was."

 

"And none of us can bear that," Bim finished. "Well my darling, you're well out of that. I still can't quite believe it of Lanyon. Imagining him provoking a blow at all is hard."

 

"You didn't meet him that day," Andrew said, then closed his eyes. "It's past anyway."

 

"And do you still feel it?" Bim said, and there was a queer expression on his face. "Sometimes you grow out of it you know, and I can imagine you grew up fast here," and the wave of his hand took in the house and the surrounding area in one elegant movement.

 

"I don't think I have a choice," Andrew said. "I should like to I suppose, but we believe that there are things God imposes on us, that we have to live with. I think for me this is one of them." Said out loud it sounded real, the result of too many long nights of ceaseless, restless thought put into so few words." Bim watched him, patient, movement stilled, a shadowed figure in the dim light of the room, and a sudden chill shivered through Andrew. The gap between them seemed too large, too impassable, a opened chasm, before Bim limped towards him.

 

"You make it sound awfully grim, ducky," he said. He leaned down, one hand braced on the back of the chair, clutching the threadbare antimacassar that adorned it, and kissed Andrew, well and thoroughly, and when he was done, limped his way back to his seat. "Keep your chin up," he advised. "Remember if all else fails, a mad dash through France will put everything into perspective."


End file.
